This Great Stage of Fools
by thisisforyou
Summary: Lord Chamberlain's Men AU. John Watson is the star player in William Shakespeare's theatre company: Sherlock Holmes is a freelance actor who plays female parts and solves crimes in his free time. When they are romantically set opposite each other in Shakespeare's new play and simultaneously thrown together to catch a jewel-thief, sparks fly in ways nobody expects... eventual smut.
1. Chapter 1

**_A/N:_**Welcome to my new historical!AU! Before we start, I'd like to say that this has been a lot of trouble for me so far, and if I wasn't so enthralled by the idea I would have given up by now. I hate posting things without a perfect title, but I am doing just that: the title is from King Lear, act 4 scene 6: "_When we are born, we cry, that we are come to this great stage of fools._" The sentiment of the scene the quote is embedded in is a lot darker than this story will be, but the quote on its own will become appropriate later. As with _Infamia_, I have endeavored to be as close to historically accurate as possible, but have bent a few obvious facts to fit the boys into history so blatantly. Any characterisations of historical figures are my own and not based on fact.

Also, after a few comments over on AO3, this has been edited slightly to correct a historical inaccuracy.

Now, onwards, for England, Harry and St George!

* * *

_London, 1602. Summer._

John watched the boy closely as he stepped out onto the bare stage, smiling slightly to himself. This afternoon's performance had been a bit of a shambles, but Ben, the boy standing quietly on stage and surveying his audience, could make them forget that. _Had_ made them forget that all afternoon. John liked Ben, liked playing with him - it almost made his own co-star's ineptitude bearable.

_Almost_, he thought to himself, glancing over at where a stage-hand was helping Tobias back into costume.

Ben lifted his head, opened his mouth, and struck the audience almost-silent with one intake of breath. John smiled again. That boy was going to go places.

"_If we shadows have offended,  
Think but this, and all is mended:  
That you have but slumbered here  
Whilst these visions did appear.  
And this weak and idle theme -  
No more yielding than a dream -  
Gentles, do not reprehend.  
If you pardon, we will mend.  
And as I am an honest Puck,  
If we have unearned luck,  
Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,  
We will make amends ere long,  
Else the Puck a liar call;  
So, good night unto you all.  
Take my hands if we be friends  
And Robin shall restore amends."_

John had always loved that speech. _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ had been the first play he had seen when he first returned from the war; he could still remember standing in the audience, spellbound by the young Puck and the knowledge that William Shakespeare had created all of this from the thin air everyone had always assumed lay between his ears.

_Dream_ had been playing on and off for eight years now, and so this audience did not leave the hushed silence that John's had before bursting into applause and chatter and shrieks of laughter. John grinned at Ben when he slipped backstage again, clapping him on the back. "Nicely done," he commented.

Ben beamed at him. "Thanks, John. Want to do your bow with me, or the Queen of the Fairies over there tripping over the Royal gown?"

John frowned at Tobias, who was indeed tripping over the hem of his costume as the stagehand struggled to fasten the back of the dress. "We'd better go all together," he said, sharing a resigned look with the boy nonetheless. "Let the lovers go first, though."

He waved at the four young actors until he caught their attention and gestured towards the stage. None of them had done much yet, all at the beginnings of their careers. Actually, John was the most experienced actor on the stage this afternoon, and he was trying to fight the people who were claiming that this meant he was on his way out, stepping down from lead roles for good.

The crowd recognised him, though, judging by the cheer that had gone up when he'd opened the play for them. They certainly hadn't been cheering for his Hippolyta, who had barely got one line right all afternoon. Once the season was over, John would be recommending that the boy take an apprenticeship in something a long way from the South Bank theatres. He took Tobias' hand now to steady him as they strode onto the stage to take a bow and the boy almost tripped over his skirts again. Maybe something that didn't require physical co-ordination, he amended to himself, grinning out at the audience. They bowed once, then John pushed Ben forwards to take his own bow. He'd always felt that Puck was the star of the play, despite the people who argued over the respective merits of Lysander and Demetrius.

They waited on stage until everyone had taken a bow, then took one last one with the entire cast. John caught the stagehand's eye as they left the stage, already hurrying forwards to help Tobias out of his dress. "Have you seen him?" he asked.

The stagehand gave him a wry smirk. "You know where he'll be when you're ready."

John grinned and slapped Ben on the shoulder again as the boy pulled a shirt on over his intricate, leafy body-paint. "Pub?"

* * *

"Well played, John," the _Elephant's_ barman grinned, sliding a mug down the polished wood until it stopped right in front of John's crossed arms. "On the house. And you, Molly."

John grinned back at the barman, seeing the boy grin out of the corner of his eye. Ben had come to the Lord Chamberlain's Men after Will Shakespeare had found him at the back of a pub, performing something that the company had devised themselves, in which he was playing a lascivious scullery-maid named Molly. The nickname had been with him ever since. John didn't think that the boy minded; it was a reminder of his talent, after all. "Cheers," he replied, lifting the beer in a sort of grateful salute. "Haven't seen Will, have you?"

The barman rolled his eyes. "He's over there," he said wryly. "Follow the sound of poetry and giggling."

William Shakespeare was sat at a table at the back of the pub, a mug of beer in one hand and an ample-bosomed doxy in the other. John caught his eye across the room and raised an eyebrow, making his amusement clear. Shakespeare's dark eyes gleamed as he waved him over, his angular face softening into a grin. John put a hand on Ben's shoulder and guided the boy through the crowd.

"Testing out a new sonnet?" he asked as they sat down. The doxy giggled.

"Starting to," the playwright said happily. "I think it's going to be a big hit, romantically. _My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun_;  
_Coral is far more red than her lips' red. _  
_If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;  
If hair be wires, black wires grow on her head…"_

John eyed the woman, who giggled again, tilting her chest forward so that her breasts almost spilled out of her dress as though to demonstrate that they were, indeed, dun-coloured. "Flattering," he commented. "Women will swoon."

"You were wonderful in the play this afternoon, Master Watson," the doxy lilted, leaning still further towards him across the table. "I _really_ believed you could be the king of the fairies. _And_ of the Greeks."

He smiled modestly. "Thank you…" he said, leaving the sentence inflected like a question so that she would provide her name.

"Celine," she obliged.

"Thank you, Celine."

Shakespeare grinned over his mug of beer. "I told you people would understand doubling Theseus and Oberon," he said smugly.

John shrugged, a dry smile making itself known on his face. "I think the only person who _didn't_ understand it was Tobias," he commented lightly.

The playwright's face darkened. "Don't mention that boy to me," he said irritably. "Once this season is over I never have to speak to him again. God knows why he wanted to be an actor. He gets nervous just speaking to _me_."

"_I_ get nervous speaking to you, too, Master Shakespeare," Ben piped up.

Shakespeare eyed him loftily. "That didn't sound particularly nervous, my boy," he replied.

Ben grinned. "Oh, but I was trembling on the inside," he said with an air of mock-innocence.

"Which is exactly my point," the playwright persisted. "You keep it on the _inside_. Outwardly, you look beautifully confident. You, my lad, are a fantastic actor." Ben buried his nose in his mug in an attempt to hide his pleased flush.

"I've just finished a new comedy," Shakespeare announced. "John, I want you to play the hero. Molly, I have a hefty female part for you."

The boy frowned. "But not _the _female part?"

John copied the expression as Shakespeare's smile became smugly mysterious. "Yesterday, I went to the Admiral's Men's performance of _The Spanish Tragedy_," he began.

"You know they're only playing that because _Hamlet _went down so well," John interrupted.

Shakespeare waved an airy hand. "I know," he said shortly, "and _Hamlet _was only such a success because it drew so heavily on _The Spanish Tragedy_, that's not the point." John hid a smirk at his friend's cavalier attitude to his popularity. "It was a good performance, well put-together. That's not the point either - the point was, their Bel-imperia absolutely blew me away."

John sat up, interested. "Oh?" he prompted. He'd seen their usual lead female play Kyd's _Cornelia_ before and she hadn't been anything special.

"I went backstage to talk to the boy afterwards because I didn't recognise him. Turns out he's not actually one of the Admiral's Men. He plays with all kinds of companies, so long as he likes the play and respects the other actors. Sort of… freelances."

Ben frowned. "He sounds a bit jumped-up to me. He'd have to be good to support that kind of fussy attitude."

"How _old _is he, to have that kind of attitude?" John asked.

Shakespeare grinned. "That was the surprising bit. He's twenty-seven. He still plays women because they're more of a challenge to him."

It was a moment before John realised his mouth was open, and closed it sharply. The man was only three years younger than he was himself, and John had not played women since before he joined the army. _Could not_ play women, he wouldn't think, not that he had ever been asked to try. He wasn't sure whether to respect or scorn this man. Perhaps he played women to hide his own effeminacy. Perhaps John shouldn't judge too heavily until he had _met_ him.

"Anyway, I told him about this new comedy and he said the part sounded wonderful and he enjoyed my writing, but he wouldn't work with Burbage. I said that was good, because I wanted _you_ as my lead. He said he'd been impressed by your _Julius Caesar_, but he wanted to meet you before he said yea or nay. He was going to watch your _Dream_ and approach you afterwards sometime."

John couldn't help but smile. _Julius Caesar_ was the play he was most proud of being in. He suspected it was also the one that had set his rivalry with Richard Burbage in motion. "Does he have a name, then, this man, so I might know when to make a good impression?"

Shakespeare grinned. "Sherlock Holmes," he said. "And please _do_ make a good impression, John, unless you want to work with Tobias again."

Ben gasped excitedly, sitting up and accidentally slopping beer over the table. "Sherlock Holmes?" he said, waving away the slowly spreading puddle agitatedly. "I get to play next to _Sherlock Holmes?"_

"You've heard of him?" John asked in surprise.

"Everyone's _heard _of him," the boy replied. "He used to play all the time when I was little. He was the one that made me want to act. By the time I joined a company he'd gone abroad. In and out of Italy, I heard. He probably played with _actual _women there."

John raised an eyebrow at Shakespeare over the table as the barman mopped up the beer Ben had spilt with a good-natured _had too many, Molly?_. Being in Italy explained why John hadn't heard of him before - Ben had begun training with the Lord Chamberlain's men the year after John had returned from the military, which meant that this Holmes had probably been there the entire time John had been in the theatre trade. It could also explain why he had impressed Will so much; the French and Italian theatres held a certain reverence in the playwright's view, and surely Holmes would have picked up elements of their style.

"He sounds like a very interesting man," John concluded, raising his mug in a toast.

* * *

Ben left the pub early, but the sun had set by the time John stumbled out the door, shouting slightly inebriated thanks at the barman and leaning slightly on Will, who was singing a song about a cat and a haddock to which John had run out of verses an hour ago. He was fairly sure that the playwright was just making them up as he went along, but the style and quality of the verses hadn't changed, so it was difficult to tell, especially with a stomach full of beer.

He bid farewell to his friend on the corner of the street and made his way slowly and unevenly towards his tiny flat. It was rubbish, but on an army pension and the few, insignificant spoils to be gained from acting it was all he could afford, and he'd been there for longer than he cared to mention.

Someone sprinted past him, shoving him roughly against the wall as they barrelled past. John shouted something after him, turning around to see if he was being chased; the youth was bent almost double as he ran and seemed to be clutching something to his chest. A thief, then. As he turned, a tall figure swathed in a dark coat and looking shadowy and sinister burst out of an alley in hot pursuit.

"_Stop him_!" the figure yelled as it got closer, and John immediately took off after the first sprinter, the fuzz of alcohol stripping from his head in the wind.

He was faster than the youth from his years of military and then stage training; he wasn't_ required_ to be in top physical condition anymore, but he hadn't quite lost the habit of rigorous exercising, and so the youth's shorter, less fit legs couldn't carry him as fast as John's and he caught up with him two doors before John's front door.

"I'd give it up if I were you," John told the young man when he was jogging comfortably beside him. He couldn't help the ridiculous grin that was spreading over his face; he hadn't felt this alive with the thrill of a chase for _years_.

The youth stopped running, doubling over whatever it was still clutched in his hands, obscuring it from John's view as he gasped for breath. John leaned against a nearby wall, affecting a casual pose but still ready to react if the man tried anything. After a moment of heaving and panting, the dark-haired man pushed off the wall and made to dodge past him.

John moved without thinking, slinging his fist up to connect with the side of the man's head and dropping him like a sack of potatoes.

On reflection, there were probably less violent ways of stopping him, John thought as the pursuant in the dark coat rounded the last corner and pulled up short beside them, frowning down at the fallen thief. He had a noble, angular face with high cheekbones and a strong nose, pale eyes flicking up to John with a tiny smile on lush, cupid's-bowed lips. "Was the punch really necessary?" the man asked, a touch of humour in his deep voice. He enunciated like a gentleman; John wondered what he was doing in the South Bank after dark.

He grinned in response. "Probably not. I was on my way home from the pub, might have got a bit carried away. I haven't run like that in years."

The man chuckled richly. "It's probably for the best," he decreed. "He might have been a bother to get back to Westminster conscious and struggling."

"What did he steal?" John asked, bending to try and roll the man over to retrieve whatever it was, quickly checking his pulse and feeling the cheekbone where he had hit it in case he'd broken it. He hadn't.

The dark coat billowed slightly as the man made a dismissive gesture. "An old widow's wedding jewels," he told him. "The usual, although slightly cleverer than your average thief. She only noticed they were missing because her harpiscord was off-key. You're welcome to a share in the reward, clearly you could use the money."

John frowned. "I only stepped in at the end," he protested. "You were the one who tracked the man down."

"And yet, I would have lost him had you not stepped in," came the reply. "Would you help me carry him to the Constable's house? And then surely you'll deserve a reward."

He knew the man would have trouble carrying the unconscious thief back to Westminster on his own, so he nodded slightly grudging acceptance. "So are you with the Constable, then?" he asked as the man bent and recovered a small cloth parcel from the unconscious thief's hands and stowed it in his coat pocket. He wasn't sure whether Constables, who were usually employed by the unpaid Justices of the Peace, were permitted assistants of their own. "Or just a citizen helping out and claiming the reward?"

"If I were only in it for the reward, I would not have offered any of it to you," the man said logically, offering John a cool but not unpleasant smile. "I'm a consulting detective," he explained, holding out a hand in introduction. "The name is Sherlock Holmes."

John blinked in surprise. "_You're _Sherlock Holmes?" he repeated stupidly. Surely there couldn't be more than one Sherlock Holmes in London. He took the proffered hand and shook it eagerly. "John Watson, Lord Chamberlain's Men. I must admit this isn't how I expected to meet you."

Holmes' eyebrows reached the line of his dark, riotous curls and a smile broke onto his lips. "No," he agreed, his eyes sweeping along the length of John's body before meeting his eyes again approvingly. "But, now that we have, Master Watson, we may as well make use of it. It's a long shuffle from here to Westminster."

* * *

**A/N: **You've probably figured out by now that Ben ("Molly") is in fact a genderbent Molly Hooper. I spent _ages_ trying to figure out what the male version of 'Molly' was, and by the time I figured it out, I didn't like it. The play that they're getting together to perform, as I've discussed with people who follow my other work, is _Twelfth Night, _another area I've had trouble with because I don't like certain elements of the play. I'm slowly coming to realise that this is not going to be as easy as _Infamia_, and not just because I'm doing it on my own. I feel a little like I'm publishing it before it's ready, but I think that's for the best in order to get feedback, which I would of course appreciate.

I need to thank **Mr_CSI **over on AO3 and **chocolate fish** and **SplendidDust **here,without all of whom this story would not have left my head.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Second chapter remarkably quick because most of it was already written. BUT, the show I was doing - an outdoor production of an episode of Star Trek: TOS - which was taking up all of my time is over now, so I'll have more time to write. Plus I'm in the flow now.

A glossary of theatrical terms is included at the end, because someone asked for one. Also, I went back and changed a few historical inaccuracies that people pointed out to me (thanks SO much, guys) so you might want to check that.

* * *

"France, was it?" Holmes asked after a few minutes, breaking a comfortable silence.

The unconscious thief almost slipped from John's hands as they walked. "What?"

"Where you were posted during your military service," Holmes continued, helping him to heft the man back into place between them. "Eight, nine years ago? The biggest concern for the British Army was the Spanish sympathy with the French Catholics. You would have been sent to Ireland or France, which was it?"

John gaped at him for a moment. "Um, both, actually," he admitted finally. "Ireland for a year, then home for a bit, and then we were camped in Brest after 1590." Holmes nodded briskly, as though this was what he had expected. "Sorry, how did you know that?"

Holmes smirked a little. "You carry yourself like a military man, but you mentioned not having run in years, so your service must have been a while ago. You're favouring your left shoulder as you carry this," he shrugged, bumping their unconscious quarry between them, "so you were invalided out, and the fact that you were walking home through this part of town says you're living on an army pension with no expectations of any other income. People who've been recently invalided home generally spend a little more on rent, with the expectation of having more money in the future. You've accepted that this is it." John realised that his mouth was open and closed it sharply. Holmes didn't miss the movement and smirked again. "And, of course, I've seen your name on playbills every time I've been in London in the last seven years. Allowing time for you to adjust and get back into the theatre, that's eight or nine years since active duty."

"That's…" John's mouth opened and closed for a moment, searching for any kind of word that would describe the incredible flood of logical conclusion that had just poured from the actor's mouth. Holmes' angular face closed off quickly, the smirk fading. "That's amazing. How do you remember things like that? Do you always… draw conclusions that quickly?"

Holmes paused slightly as he walked, his face twitching back into a sort of smile. "Yes, I do," he said, and John could pick up a tiny hint of flattered surprise in his deep voice. "I always have. I draw conclusions without consciously noticing the facts that lead me to them. It takes more effort to stop and explain my deductions than it takes to make them in the first place."

"Sorry," John apologised, grinning. "I won't ask for an explanation again. I was just surprised. It's magic, you know."

Holmes laughed. "Oh, yes," he agreed, shifting the thief higher over his shoulder. "Right down to the part where it becomes disappointingly simple once I explain the trick."

John returned the laugh, and they walked in quiet down a few streets, before John's curiosity overcame his respect of the other actor's apparent dislike of explaining himself. "Why didn't you become a Justice of the Peace, then? I mean, you're solving crimes now. Clearly you're brilliant at it. Why not do it in an official capacity?"

The tall man looked over at him with a raised eyebrow, but the pleased flush on his cheeks darkened. "Why didn't you become a physician after you came back from Brest?" he asked.

John stared at him again. "How… oh, never mind. Sorry." Holmes smiled slightly. "I just… when I first came back I'd been injured, obviously. I had a sort of tremor in my hand for a while, which isn't a good look for a doctor. And by the time that cleared up I'd started acting with Will. Having a job as a physician would have prevented me from acting."

The actor nodded. "I was the same. If I'd become a Constable, or even a Justice, I would have wound up finding old ladies' cats and shepherding people out of Saturday street-markets. This way I can pick and choose the interesting cases. Just the way I never joined a theatre company, so I can pick and choose the interesting roles."

It was, as John had noted previously, an extremely cocky point of view. But he'd just seen the skill with which Holmes used one of his talents, and the other had been enough to impress William Shakespeare, so he must be good at that one too – the playwright had people like Ben to compare him to. He grinned wryly and said nothing. He would reserve judgment on that until he'd seen him on a stage. Will still had a set of cue-scripts from _As You Like It_, perhaps he and Holmes ought to discover what they were like together before they saw the script and had to make serious decisions.

There was something slightly standoffish about the taller man, with his arch bearing and high cheekbones that John now recognised as resulting from an actor's training and icy eyes and brisk way of talking. But he had a smile like a bolt of lightning, brilliant and brief, which transformed his face entirely into something quite lovely.

"Will said you play women because it's more challenging?" he queried after another few minutes' comfortable silence.

Holmes' mouth twitched up into a smile. "I believe it's more interesting, too," he said thoughtfully. "But yes - I play women because there are more rules, more constrictions - quite literally, as you'll know if you've ever worn a corset." He flashed a quick grin in John's direction. John _hadn't_ ever worn a corset, so he simply smiled weakly in response. "I started acting when I was fifteen because I thought it would help me as a detective. You know, if I could pretend more easily that I was supposed to be places where I wasn't authorised, et cetera. I was a late developer, and at fifteen my voice hadn't dropped and I hadn't grown into my body, and so when I started acting the company insisted on training me to play women."

"And you just never stopped," John finished, frowning at him.

The man smiled wryly. "Acting is… hypnotic," he said. "There is a joy to be had from acting that you cannot get in any other way." John grinned; he knew the feeling. Another reason he'd never wanted to become a physician after Brest. "And, as I said, I still play women because they're more challenging, and therefore more rewarding. And, in comedies, such as the one your Master Shakespeare is writing, often far more fun."

John nodded thoughtfully. He had actually thought himself, when _As You Like It_ first showed - John had taken bit-parts but hadn't fancied the lead - that Rosalind looked like incredible fun to play, with all of her quick-witted responses and her lengthy stint dressed as a man. The audience had adored the idea of the boy actor playing a woman who was, in her turn, playing a man. Will had often expressed interest in repeating the exercise, and John had eagerly signed up. He wondered suddenly whether _this_ was it.

He thought he'd rather like being attracted to Holmes as a man. Then his mind sat back and admired the singularity of that sentence for a moment. He only just managed not to snigger childishly to himself.

They continued to talk about acting - Holmes described the season of _The Spanish Tragedy_ that he was performing in currently, and John elaborated on what the detective couldn't figure out for himself about his rivalry with Richard Burbage - for the rest of the laborious journey to Westminster.

"I think it was _Julius Caesar. _That was a big hit and Burbage really wanted it. I couldn't have cared less up to then, but he got quite nasty after that. And then my _Richard III _got better reviews than everyone expected given how old the play was, and then… naturally when he got _Hamlet_ instead of me, he gloated for weeks. I never told him that Will offered it to me and I turned it down."

Holmes laughed, a surprisingly rich and warm sound. "Wise decision, Master Watson," he said when it had died away. "You shouldn't play Hamlet."

John felt himself bristle. "Why not?" he asked, trying not to sound indignant. He knew he _could_ play Hamlet, he just hadn't liked the character enough to try.

"He was a pathetic fop of a character," Holmes deferred smoothly, directing them down a side-alley into the poorer part of the district. "Fascinating characterisation, I admit, but hardly likeable. The entire play is about him _not_ doing anything. _You_ are clearly a man of action, it wouldn't become you to play someone so frozen in cowardice and indecision." He frowned at another alleyway. "It suited Burbage to no end, though," he admitted. "Deplorable though his own character may be, the man is a passable actor."

John made a noncommittal face. He knew Burbage could act, or Will wouldn't keep giving him all the lead roles he had accumulated. That didn't mean he had to like other people saying it.

They stopped in front of a completely inconspicuous door, Holmes dropping the thief unceremoniously on the ground. "Feel free to leave now, Master Watson," he said brightly. "Your help has been much appreciated, but I imagine you will want to get _some_ rest this evening. I will split the reward with you and give you your share when I go to hear your play."

John released his hold on the thief, letting him fall completely onto the cobblestones. "Yeah, Will mentioned you'd be coming. Can I ask when? Our Puck is a fan of yours, he'll probably want some warning."

He smiled at the thought of Ben's open admiration of the man, and what he would say when John told him of the circumstances of their meeting. Holmes, too, smiled. "How flattering," he commented dryly, but John could tell that he was genuinely pleased by the statement. "I was planning to come tomorrow night, if you'll forgive the lack of _warning_. I will speak to you and Master Shakespeare afterwards, so if you would delay your usual defection to the pub for a few minutes."

John chuckled. "All right," he said, a yawn creeping up on him at the idea of his own bed. "I will see you tomorrow, Master Holmes."

The detective grinned back on him before banging loudly enough on the door in front of him to wake the entire street. "Indeed you will, Master Watson."

* * *

"I ran into Sherlock Holmes on my way back from the pub yesterday," John mentioned in a pointedly casual tone the next afternoon, studiously watching the costume designer paint leafy designs over Ben's torso instead of looking at Will. Ben jumped at the name, earning himself a thick stripe of paint down one arm and a frustrated tut from the artist.

"You met _Sherlock Holmes?_" the boy repeated, his voice suddenly a little breathless. John chuckled. "What was he like?"

Will frowned. "Did you make a good impression?" he asked sternly.

John considered the question. "I was a little drunk," he admitted, "but I managed to knock out the criminal he was chasing and help him carry the unconscious thief back to some Constable's house. I think it was a good impression, just perhaps in the wrong areas. I don't think _either_ of us made a good impression on the Constable, at that time of night." Ben's eyes widened until John could almost see the stars twinkling around Holmes' profile in them. "Did you _know_ he's a detective as well? When he's not acting, he's solving crimes."

"I didn't know," the playwright said thoughtfully. "I can't say I'm surprised, though. He's very astute."

John smiled. "If I had to describe him in one word, _astute_ would be a good one," he remarked.

Will actually laughed. "He did it to you too, then? That thing where he drops things you've never told anyone into casual conversation, like he just knows all your secrets?" he shook his head with a wry grin as John shrugged. "He told me almost the exact words my schoolmaster used to tell me off with, all about my father, even my son. I could barely believe it."

John's eyebrows shot into his hairline. The playwright barely talked to _John_ about his son, and they'd been best friends since they were children. He supposed Holmes had read it in the set of his jaw or the lines around his eyes. Or _Hamlet_, he supposed; he'd recognised a lot of the sentiment etched into that play.

"Well," he said lightly, accepting a toga when the stage manager handed it to him, "don't wet yourself, Molly, but he'll be in the audience this afternoon."

Ben almost jumped out of his seat. "_Sherlock Holmes_ is coming to hear our performance?" The man still attempting to draw his art on the boy's body crossed his arms in disgust. Ben ignored him. "But he _can't_ - what if I make a mistake? I haven't prepared!"

John raised an eyebrow. "You haven't made a mistake this entire season. _I've_ made more mistakes than you have. You'll be splendid, just like always - and don't forget he'll be comparing you to Tobias. You could say all of your lines backwards and you'd still look good."

"He won't be comparing me to Tobias," the boy panicked. "He'll be comparing me to _him!_ I can't compare to Sherlock Holmes!"

Will rolled his eyes. "He's twenty-seven years old. That gives him, what, thirteen years more experience than you? He _won't_ be comparing you to him. Just do what you have done every performance this season, and he'll be blown away." John shared a small smile with his friend as Ben continued to fidget nervously. "Now try to sit still so that Archie can finish your torso."

They walked away from the artist's grateful smile, but they didn't get far before Will stopped with a hand on John's arm. "You liked him, then? Holmes?" he asked, sounding feverishly excited.

John smiled. "I did, yeah," he replied easily. "Probably shouldn't have, some of the things that he said, but I did." He let out a breath and windmilled his arms in a show of warming up. "I'm a bit nervous myself," he admitted. "I mean… he is effectively _judging _us. All of us."

The playwright patted him comfortingly on the back. "As you said to Molly," he said brightly. "Do what you've done all season, and he will love you, or he'll be wrong."

"That's not quite what I said," John protested, unable to stop the smile from spreading across his face, "but thanks, Will."

Shakespeare grinned boyishly. "You'll be absolutely fine, I know it."

* * *

Surprisingly, they were. Even Tobias was on form; John could see the back tier of the audience responding to his lines, where usually they were whipped away by the wind and the groundlings from his lack of projection. John clapped him on the back when they finished, grinning. "Well done tonight, Tobias," he said earnestly, trying not to sound surprised. "That voice work is really paying off."

The boy smiled gratefully at him, almost ruining the effect by tripping over his hem before the stagehand could come to give him a hand. John turned around, chuckling to himself, and almost walked into a sharply familiar figure in a long black coat.

"If that was _well done_, I dread to think what he's normally like," the actor remarked in a low voice, just quiet enough that Tobias couldn't hear.

John frowned and shushed him. "Don't say that, you'll hurt him," he said indignantly. "He tries. I don't think he'll come back to the theatre, though."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "God forbid," he remarked coolly. "Tobias Anderson. I wondered why I'd never heard of him."

"Did you just come here to insult us, then?" John asked irritably, trying to push past him but failing. The man was remarkably solid, for all that his pale skin and black coat made him look like some kind of spectre.

He frowned. "I offended you. Why did that offend _you_?"

John refrained from throwing his hands up in frustration. Will had mentioned a week or so ago that actors seemed to do _everything_ in everyday life with a sort of dramatic flair that ordinary people lacked; John had laughed at the time, but he'd been conscious of his own gestures ever since. "You insulted my co-star. He's a part of my performance. Constructive criticism I can handle, but plain insults do tend to offend me."

Holmes watched him for a moment as though he was genuinely unaware of his _faux pa_. Then he swallowed, his entire posture softening. "I apologise," he said quietly. "If it helps, I thought your performance was very impressive. And I'm committing to the play for the entire season, although I had largely decided that after last night anyway."

John stopped for a moment, thinking that over. He'd heard a lot from Will about how fussy Holmes was, how many productions he'd turned down. Was he saying that he had decided to do the play after meeting John, without seeing him act or seeing the rest of the cast? He couldn't help but find that touching, whether it was as big a deal as the playwright had made out or not. And, naturally, with the sudden rush of warm feelings, his anger faded. "Thank you," he said instead. "Will'll be delighted. He should be around somewhere." He looked around, but caught sight of Ben instead, gingerly pulling a shirt on over his body-paint. "Molly! Come over here for a minute," he called.

The boy grinned at him and trotted over; comically, he didn't look too closely at the person standing next to him until he got there. His jaw fell open. "'_Zounds,_" he said, suddenly standing up straighter and adjusting his shirt. "You're Sherlock Holmes, aren't you? I'm Ben - Benjamin Hooper. It's an _honour_ to meet you, Master Holmes."

Holmes smiled broadly, his cheeks crinkling. John marvelled again at how the expression softened his entire face. "Sherlock, please," he said. Ben grinned brightly. "Would you prefer me to call you 'Molly'? I didn't see the play that earned you the nickname, but if this afternoon's performance was anything to go by I'm certain it was excellent."

"Molly is fine," Ben replied, stammering slightly and flushing. "It doesn't matter, really - only most people around here call me Molly."

Holmes - _Sherlock_, John corrected himself with a tiny smile - nodded in an understanding sort of manner. "Well, I look forward to working with you, _Molly_."

His face lit up again. "You're doing the play?"

"You were both spectacular," Sherlock confirmed. "And I met John last night and we got along surprisingly well." He turned back to John, his expression oddly hesitant. "In fact, I've never got along with anyone quite as easily as that. I knew I'd enjoy working with you after that."

John resisted the urge to ask him to repeat himself, to hear again from those lips that Sherlock Holmes had agreed to an entire season of Shakespeare's comedy after just _talking_ to John, and not about the play. He grinned instead, watching as the almost scared expression on the other man's face broadened into a return smile. He suddenly re-evaluated his opinion of the younger man: perhaps not someone raised to privilege who expected to be attended, someone born to arrogance and superiority, but someone who had adopted them as a defence mechanism when the world decided he didn't fit. He remembered the surprised, flattered smile on his face when John had complimented his observational powers. Those sorts of too-personal comments must offend more people than they impressed.

"I would be honoured, Sherlock," he said quietly instead.

Sherlock smiled at him. "As would I, John," he replied. "Your performance tonight was admirable. I've seen _Dream_ before, but never quite with that level of quiet _menace_ that you added to those scenes. Both of you," he added, casting Ben a glance. "_My mistress with a monster is in love_ - most people throw that line away when they get distracted by the comedy of Bottom, but the two of you _horrified_."

"I'm delighted to hear it." The three of them turned at the sound of the playwright's voice; Will stood behind them leaning against the wall, grinning broadly. "Welcome aboard, Master Holmes."

* * *

**Notes: **

_Doubling_, or _role-doubling_, is the practice of having the same actor play more than one part. It's not certain whether Shakespeare ever did this, but it is speculated that Theseus/Oberon and Hippolyta/Titania were intended to be doubled. Many modern companies do this to exaggerate the gender war that can be seen in the forest. Another good one is doubling Posthumus and Cloten in _Cymbeline_, the best example of which was played by Tom Hiddleston in Cheek by Jowl's production. Google it. I would have paid for flights and accommodation just to see this if I'd known it was happening at the time.

_Cue-scripts_ were the format that actors were given scripts in. An actor was given their part rather than the entire script; they would get, at most, the last sentence, at least, the last word of the line before their own. Shakespeare often used this to his advantage by repeating the cued word several times.

Also, as an interesting fact, good actors have amazing cheekbones because of all the voice-training that they do. Proper projection of the voice in a theatre involves opening the resonant cavities in the cheekbones, which builds up muscles. Hey presto, you could cut yourself slapping the Cumberface.

I think the idea of bodypaint for Puck comes from the novel _King of Shadows,_ by Susan Cooper, but I can't quite remember. Also I wrote this before we discovered Anderson's first name, so sorry about that.

Lastly, thanks so much to everyone who responded to chapter one, especially **Silmanumenel** on AO3 for pulling me up on my slapdash research in certain areas.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Sorry that took so long. Life, you know. This is also longer than my average chapter, hope that makes up for it somewhat. So many thanks to **Silmanumenel** on AO3, who looked over this chapter as a historical consultant. I feel like this is so much better for her input. Case and historical notes at the end of the chapter, as usual.

* * *

John was just preparing to leave his flat the next morning when Sherlock Holmes knocked on his door.

He was dressed in the same striking style as the past few days, impeccably fashionable but just different enough from what other well-off people were wearing currently to attract attention, his black coat billowing slightly in the icy breeze, tapping a roll of cue-scripts against one gloved hand. "Good morning, John," he greeted him calmly, as though they had arranged to meet and John ought to have been expecting him.

John blinked a few times. "Morning, Sherlock," he answered, trying a politely inquisitive smile to remind the detective that he was unexpected, but not imply that he was unwelcome. "How did you know where I live?"

Sherlock shrugged idly. "You mentioned living close to where we met. I came back to where that happened and asked someone if they knew where you lived. I knew you'd been here long enough for your neighbours to know you." He gave a sudden, almost cursory smile as John processed the information, then waved the scripts in the air. "Shakespeare came to the place I'm staying in at the moment and gave me my first act's cue-scripts, I just wanted to talk them over with you. If you're not busy," he added, though the expression on his face made it quite clear that he already knew John wasn't.

"Right," John said slowly, not trying to hide the smile at the thought of having cue-scripts for the play - the first glimpse of a new work always thrilled him."I haven't got any -"

The actor held up the roll of script pre-emptively. "I got yours as well. I told him I would go and find you."

One corner of John's smile twitched higher. Sherlock was enigmatically calm on the surface, but the excitement practically vibrating beneath his skin was delightfully obvious. "All right," he replied. "I was just about to go for a walk - I'm sorry, this flat isn't really big enough to entertain. Can we walk and talk?"

Sherlock smiled, genuinely this time, just a slight lifting of the corners of his mouth and a brightening of his eyes. "Of course," he replied. "I'd like that."

"So," John tried once they had closed his front door behind them. "You said 'where you're staying' - are you not living there permanently?"

The detective frowned. "I'm afraid not. I'm staying at an acquaintance's inn in Islington currently - I've been having a bit of trouble finding lodgings within my price range ." He stopped suddenly, John almost stepping into a questionable puddle in the road to keep up with the change in pace. "Actually," he said thoughtfully. "I found a nice two-bedroom house in Marylebone for rent. I couldn't stand the thought of sharing lodgings with a stranger, but I… if we split the rent, it wouldn't be much more than your current rooms."

John couldn't help but stare a little. "For half of a two-bedroom house in Marylebone?" he said incredulously, ignoring the other implication in the sentence in case it had been accidental.

Sherlock shrugged. "I know the woman who owns and keeps the house. She owes me a favour and offered me a lower rent - her husband was executed for treason following the Devereux plot last year."

"So now she owns the house," John finished, just to show he was on the same page. "We got into a bit of trouble over that, too. Last time Will ever took a commission. That's quite a big favour, though," he prompted, raising an eyebrow and receiving a raised eyebrow in return. "What did you do for her?"

The detective smiled with something almost resembling fondness. "I was the one who proved her husband was secretly meeting with Devereux to arrange the rebellion, and that she couldn't have known about it herself," he said casually, as if the words were largely irrelevant. "I didn't have anything to do with the furore over _Richard II_, though, you got out of that one on your own. But without me, he wouldn't have been executed."

John tried not to stare. "And she owes you a favour for that, does she?"

"Oh, yes," Sherlock insisted. "He was quite a piece of work." He shook his head briskly as though to clear it while John shook his in a repeated protest of Sherlock's apparent ignorance of ordinary people's hearts. He wondered how the man could act so well without understanding the mechanics of love. "That aside," the detective continued abruptly, "she'll be in the house now if you want to take a look."

It took a moment before John fully registered what he was suggesting. He'd dismissed the idea earlier when the other man didn't press the matter, but now there was no mistaking the intent in his words. "Hang on," he insisted, stopping in the street to better stare incredulously at the detective. "Are you actually suggesting that we move in together?"

Sherlock stopped as well, turning back to John with a slightly bewildered expression. "Did I do something wrong?" he asked, frowning.

"You… we've known each other for days, and you want us to move in together? You know my entire life history just from looking at the way I walk, but you can't possibly know if we'll cohabit well together from two days' acquaintance." Sherlock opened his mouth, probably to argue that last point, but John held up a hand to show he hadn't finished. "On top of that," he continued, "we're about to start working with each other. _Acting_ with each other, as _lovers_. I don't think I could spend most of the day being so intimate with anyone and not be able to escape from them in my own home."

The detective looked as though he hadn't considered this point. He nodded slowly. "I can understand that," he admitted. "But the offer is there, should you ever wish to look at the place. I'd like it if you considered it once the season is over."

"Thank you," John replied, meaning it. Even his closest friends - his own _family_ had carefully avoided the subject of taking in a lodger around him. "Most people wouldn't want to live with me."

Sherlock made a face, apparently to display scorn at the thought of _most people_. "No, they're not generally enamoured with the thought of living with me, either," he commented. He sounded unconcerned, but John walked slightly closer to him in comfort all the same.

He slapped him cheerfully on the shoulder after a moment. "So, what did you think of the scripts, then?" he asked.

The actor brightened, withdrawing the folds of paper from an inside pocket of his incredible coat. "It's very difficult to gain an accurate picture of a play from two cue-scripts, especially when they only contain the first act," he said briskly. "One day, I should hope it will be possible to give every actor an entire script before they begin to rehearse. A character is shown just as much by other people's lines as their own, and I have seen a great deal of subtext and foreshadowing left out of good plays because the actors simply did not have the information to portray them."

John nodded emphatically. "Especially given the lack of rehearsal with the entire cast . I found that especially with _Julius Caesar_ - the first time we got everyone together and ran the entire play, I had to completely revise my picture of his character because of the way everyone else treated him."

Sherlock hummed agreement. "It can also be incredibly irritating if other actors get the wrong idea from their lines. Often, that far in, it is too late for simpler men to change their readings."

He smiled at the taller man's automatic assumption that anyone who disagreed with his own interpretation of a script was wrong, but he knew the truth of the statement. Sometimes people did get the wrong end of the stick from the incomplete lines of the cue-script, but actors like Tobias found it impossible to change the way they said a line after they had memorised it a certain way.

"Well, you and I can rehearse together, at least," he said, grinning at the thought.

Sherlock hummed, but he sounded thoughtful. "Actually, from our parts in the first act, I'm not certain the romance between Viola and Orsino - that's my character and yours, I don't know how much you know about the play - is the centre of the story. It seems quite likely that the romance plotline between Viola and Olivia will be more developed."

John frowned. "Viola and Olivia?" he repeated questioningly. "I only know that it is a comedy - Will compared it to _As You Like It,_ which I took to mean that Viola will spend a great deal of it in male dress."

The actor nodded, waving the roll of script around eagerly as he spoke. "Viola washes up on the shore of an island and presents herself in male clothing to its Duke, Orsino, as a singer. She falls in love with him, but he is obsessively in love with a young woman called Olivia - presumably to be played by your friend Molly - who in turn wants nothing to do with him because she's in mourning over her dead brother. Orsino sends Viola, as Cesario the singer, to woo Olivia on his behalf, which she does a little too effectively and Olivia falls for Cesario. From what I've seen, I think the action of the play might focus more on Viola wooing Olivia and another subplot without the two of them than on Viola and Orsino themselves."

Will had warned John that it was a very female-oriented play and his character was not on stage for the majority of the action and John did not mind that - he often preferred it that way. His current Oberon, for example, was both more fun for him and more memorable for the audience than Lysander or Demetrius or even Bottom. John nodded slowly. Comedies were quite often more focussed on women than men. He'd once remarked that it was an attempt to make up for the almost nonexistence of women in tragedy .

"I'm sure Molly would be more than eager to rehearse with you, as well," he said, smiling at the thought of the look on Ben's face when Sherlock offered and ignoring the tightness in his chest at the thought of the detective passing him over for the younger boy. Jealousy in theatre was far more trouble than it was worth - and besides, it was _him_ that Sherlock had sought out once he had read the scripts.

Sherlock smiled tightly, another cursory, polite, superficial smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Good," he said. "And perhaps we could rehearse _As You Like It_ as well, to better portray the romance between Viola and Orsino, if Shakespeare believes them to be similar."

John grinned back at him. "I was thinking that myself," he admitted. "I enjoyed the scenes between Orlando and Ganymede. I remember mentioning to Will that if he ever wanted to replicate the relationship, I would be eager to play the man."

"Your relationship with Shakespeare sounds immensely profitable for the both of you," Sherlock remarked, smirking. "He gets the security of a fine actor in his company, and you are offered lead roles in fantastic plays before anyone else."

John shook his head in amusement. "It has its advantages," he agreed. " And to think I often had to help him in school - he had so much trouble keeping his mind in one place ."

The detective opened his mouth to reply, but closed it again sharply; a beggar crouching in the street had grabbed the bottom of his coat and held him back a few paces. "Spare any change, sir?" the boy asked plaintively. John almost expected him to yank his coat out of the offending hand with a sharp word, but to his surprise Sherlock sank into a crouch in front of him, hands searching in one pocket.

"Do you have something for me?" the detective asked in a low voice, pulling sixpence from his pocket and holding it up. The boy looked around furtively before bending close and murmuring quickly in his ear. Sherlock flipped the sixpence into the boy's lap and straightened, a little smile twisting the corners of his mouth as he processed whatever the boy had told him. After a moment he muttered, "Excellent," to himself and carried on walking as though nothing had happened, with a call of, "Thank you, Billy!" back to the boy.

John stared between the two for a moment; Billy stared back with unashamed curiosity. "You with him, then?" he asked finally. "Mister Holmes?"

"Um," John floundered slightly, still watching the detective walk away. "I'm not sure, I -"

Sherlock stopped as he was about to round the corner, turning back to face them with one eyebrow raised. "Are you coming, John?" he called back, a touch of a smile colouring his lips.

"I guess so," John replied, answering both Sherlock's and Billy's question at once. He looked down at the boy. "Thanks, again," he said brightly, and hurried off down the alley to catch up with the actor.

The taller man was smiling expectantly down at him. "John, you assisted me with this particular line of work once before. You wouldn't be interested in doing it again, would you?"

John couldn't help but grin back; a little crime-fighting would definitely break up the day's monotony. "As long as I'm back in time for _Dream_, I'd love to help."

Sherlock's smile widened, but there was a hint of knowing smugness underneath it that showed that he knew _exactly_ how eager John was for a repeat of the first night they had met. "We won't be as active as the first time, I'm afraid, but it should be interesting nonetheless - this way from here."

"What did he say to you?" John asked as he turned where Sherlock pointed him.

"An address," the detective supplied. "London's homeless are infinitely useful. Certain of the city's Constables have grown used to the idea that if they let the street children know that they are looking for me, I will get the message within the hour. In this case, Constable Lestrade put out the word and the address at which he requires my help with a murder case."

John frowned, still running every third step or so to keep up with the other man. "Surely he should do the _murder_ cases himself? Shouldn't that be… you know, official?"

Sherlock smirked. "One day, London will have a proper law enforcement authority," he commented idly. "The current system is close to useless. That's why I have so much custom - the Justices hold the title to impress people, not to actually make a difference. And the ones who employ Constables don't pay them enough for them to do anything because they aren't paid themselves. If you want a crime solved, you either have to do it yourself - and those so-called 'vigilantes' are more of a hindrance than anything else - or hire someone like me. And there are no people like me. Only me."

John rolled his eyes, but let the smile show on his face. "So this Lestrade calls you because _he_ doesn't get paid enough? Doesn't he have to pay you?"

"Oh, no," Sherlock waved a dismissive hand as though the idea was ridiculous. "I don't make a habit of asking for payment, John. Most people insist upon _rewarding_ me on completion of my services, but if I did it for the money it would lose some of its appeal - I would start taking the less interesting cases purely because they pay the most. Lestrade brings me the most interesting cases - the murders, especially - and so I'm more than willing to do them _pro gratis_."

There was an odd kind of relish in Sherlock's smooth baritone, as though a murder was the best thing that could possibly happen to him. John frowned a little, but he supposed that murders would happen whether the detective wanted them to or not, and having someone around who enjoyed solving them and bringing the offenders to justice was probably better than not having him. "Right," he said instead. "That certainly explains why you can't afford decent living quarters."

Sherlock smiled tightly. "The inkeep of the place I'm staying in was the prime suspect in a triple murder investigation a few years ago. I happened to be in town and successfully proved he couldn't have been the murderer. He's letting me stay at the inn for free as a favour, but I imagine there will be limits to his gratitude eventually."

John allowed him a dry chuckle. "Well, perhaps someone will _reward_ you enough that you can afford a better place even temporarily," he consoled. "Though I'm sure if you suggested to this inkeep that you were moving out without having found permanent lodgings he would insist that you stay as long as you need." Sherlock gave another short smile. "So where was the address, then? The murder?"

The detective's face brightened considerably. "Chislehurst," he supplied. "The Abbey Grange."

* * *

The Abbey Grange was a large stone building; its garden path stretched on for what felt like almost as long as the walk to get to the front gate. When they knocked on its enormous front door it was at least a minute before John heard footsteps approaching from the other side.

The young olive-skinned woman who opened the door was not dressed like a servant; John raised an eyebrow at her white shirt and dark breeches. She raised a rudely defiant eyebrow back at him before her eyes shifted to Sherlock and her face fell into a disapproving expression.

"What are _you_ doing here?" she asked rudely.

Sherlock smiled softly. "Good morning, Miss Donovan," he said in a tone that was just slightly too pleasant to be genuine. "Constable Lestrade invited me to take a look at his crime scene."

Miss Donovan ran a hand through her messy dark curls and sighed in frustration. "I told him not to call you," she complained. "We don't need your help. It was a burglary gone wrong, that's all. Blokes were making off with the silver when the lord and lady of the house came back, so they knocked them both out and Lord Brackenstall died. The lady's inside giving evidence and it's clear that it was the Randalls."

The Randall gang had been in the periodicals; John remembered reading about their string of violent robberies. He looked at Sherlock for his reaction to the woman's shockingly rude behaviour to her superior, but the detective's expression hadn't changed. "Then perhaps there is evidence in the scene that may assist us in capturing them," he suggested calmly. "I was asked to come all the way here, Miss Donovan, do not think I am leaving without at least looking at the room. And I would like to speak to Lady Brackenstall."

The woman looked as though she was about to argue, but when she opened her mouth there was a man's sharp call of her surname from the hall behind her before she could begin to speak. She held her tongue with an expression that suggested the effort caused her physical pain and turned to look at the man who had spoken.

A stocky, harassed-looking man with short, greying hair and a pleasant face clattered down the hall, giving the two of them a cursory smile. "Let him in, please. I'd still like him to take a look, there might be something we missed." Donovan reluctantly stepped aside, allowing Sherlock to step over the threshold, John following close behind. "Oh," the man affected, smiling distractedly at John, "have we met? Constable Gregory Lestrade."

John smiled back and accepted the proffered handshake genially; his attempt to introduce himself in return was cut off by Sherlock. "This is John Watson, formerly of Her Majesty's militia, more recently a lead player in the Lord Chamberlain's Men," he said, sounding almost proud. "John helped me catch that jewel thief a few days ago and will be assisting me here as well."

Lestrade looked surprised, but didn't make any comment on it. "Right," he said instead. "Well, nice to meet you. Lady Brackenstall is in the sitting room - we had to move the body as she's still living in the house, but otherwise the scene is undisturbed. I'm sorry, but there might not be much for you to do - I sent for you before the Lady came around, and she turned out to have far more memory of the event than we expected."

Sherlock nodded perfunctorily and made a gesture indicating that the Constable should lead the way. John fell into step beside him as they made their way down the hall, Donovan somewhat grumpily remaining in the foyer. John tried to smile at her, but she ignored him. He wondered what had led her to this, a young mixed-race woman wearing men's clothes and assisting a Constable in a grisly murder investigation with such a chip on her shoulder. It was clear that Lestrade had not allowed her in the sight of Lady Brackenstall, and even though John understood why he felt a twinge of pity for the girl.

He was quickly distracted when they entered what John presumed was the sitting room, however; though there was no dead body, it was obvious where one had recently been due to the dark stain marring the sumptuous carpet. One of the curtains had been pulled from the wall by the railing and was piled on the carpet by the window. The air was thick with the cloying scent of an expensive perfume that more or less exactly failed to cover up the underlying stink of old blood. John watched Sherlock wrinkle his nose and narrow his eyes, striding confidently over to the bloodstain on the carpet and crouching over it critically.

Nausea settled faintly in the pit of his stomach. He'd been so grateful when they shipped him back home from Brest, bone-weary from the long siege and the constant vigilance and the blood he could never quite wash out from under his fingernails. Other soldiers in his regiment had had breaks from the sudden and surreal presence of death, but as a surgeon John had seen, analysed and handled almost every wounded man in the field. The smell of blood brought parts of him back there, made his wounded shoulder ache and his stomach rebel. There were things about his time in the military that he had found himself thinking about wistfully in recent years: such evocative proximity to death was not one of them.

"Blow to the back of the head," Sherlock muttered, still bent close to the carpet. "He was hit while he was standing up, you can tell by the way the blood has spread. Does that fit with Lady Brackenstall's account?"

"It does, Master Holmes."

John looked around sharply; it was a woman's voice that had spoken, clear and sharp with a touch of out-of-place amusement. The woman it belonged to was tall and upright, clearly the lady of the house. Her blonde hair fell about her face in carefully arranged ringlets that accentuated her sharp, pale cheekbones, a dark bruise blossoming on the left one. Her blue eyes sparkled with something bold that John couldn't quite place. Sherlock straightened, frowning at her. "Lady Brackenstall," he said pleasantly, affecting a smile it was clear he didn't believe in as he made an almost insouciant bow. "I am sorry that we meet in such unpleasant circumstances."

She smiled as she returned the polite greeting, but John was close enough to see that it trembled. "Your reputation precedes you, Master Holmes," she said airily. "I have every confidence you can find the men who did this."

"With your help, my Lady, I am certain that we will," he replied politely. "Perhaps if you would give me your account, and I will attempt to verify it based on the evidence in the room while you speak."

The Lady hesitated for a moment, bringing a tiny crease between Sherlock's eyes as he tried not to frown. Then she smiled in an attempt to cover up the pause. "Of course, Master Holmes." She held his firm eye contact for the barest of moments before turning around and lowering herself and her voluminous black skirts into an armchair. Her handmaid moved demurely to stand behind the chair, keeping one hand where the Lady could see it as though she was afraid the other woman would forget she was there. "Teresa can help, can't you, Teresa, you were awake."

"I was, milady," the girl replied quietly, smiling softly at Sherlock over her mistress' head. "I doubt I will ever forget it."

John's stomach twisted and he took an almost involuntary step forwards to comfort the girl; Lady Brackenstall held up a hand as though to prevent him from doing so. He halted, glancing at Sherlock. It had been a long time since he'd dealt with nobility for anything more than a 'thank you' as they complimented his performance. Sherlock shook his head minutely. When he turned back to the maid, she had withdrawn to pick up a bowl of cool water and begin to press it to the bruise on her lady's face.

"Very well," he said instead, affecting an unconcerned air. "When you are ready, Lady Brackenstall."

She shifted in her seat, her blue eyes darting from Sherlock to the bloodstain on the carpet. The detective continued to watch her as she lifted a hand to shoo away her maid and her sleeve slipped back to reveal three red welts on her forearm. Sherlock made an exclamation, crowding in closer. The maid, too, took a deep breath in as though she had not noticed the marks before. "But my Lady," Sherlock exclaimed, reaching for the offending forearm and being slapped away. "You have other injuries!"

The Lady shook her sleeve back over the welts, grimacing. "They are unrelated, Master Holmes, though they perhaps provide a good place to start. My husband was not a pleasant man. He was far too fond of the bottle, and when he drank he often became violent. My arm was the result of my attempting to suggest he had had enough. Last night I was reading in this armchair to avoid our marriage bed and I must have dozed off here. When I awoke I went to close that window," she pointed at the huge bay window at her back; Sherlock strode to it, throwing the latch and peering at the ground below, "although I had not remembered opening it. When I drew back the curtain…"

Apparently satisfied, Sherlock returned to her, still frowning intently. "There was a man in front of the window. He struck me across the face and I lost consciousness, and when I regained it he had pulled down the curtains and was using the fringes to tie me to this chair."

Sherlock bent and picked up the fraying, knotted fabric from the floor beside the armchair. He examined the frayed edge thoughtfully. Lady Brackenstall continued speaking, watching him with an odd expression on her face. "They had opened the bottle of wine on the mantelpiece - it belonged to Eustace, it was French, the very finest, I believe. There were three of them - the one who struck me was older, but strong, and the other two could have been his sons, they all looked so similar. They drank the wine and they were packing up the silver from the mantel when Eustace ran in. He was carrying this black club he favoured, it is on the floor where he fell. He must have heard a disturbance. He charged at the older man, but the two sons grabbed him and beat him over the head with the fire iron. I do not think that they meant to kill him. They panicked when they realised he was dead, I believe, and that is why they only took that silver from the mantel and fled."

The detective narrowed his eyes, examining the glasses on the mantelpiece and the club and bent poker by the door. Lady Brackenstall watched him carefully, looking almost anxious and biting her lip. John frowned at her. Such anxiety was out of character for a woman whose abusive husband had just been murdered. Especially when the reasons and the culprits were so plain. Grief, perhaps, maybe even relief that the constant abuse from Lord Eustace would end, but not worry.

" The curtains would have made considerable noise at being pulled from the wall so violently, would they not? Why did none of the servants hear it and come running ?"

Lady Brackenstall lifted an eyebrow. " It was late, as I said, Master Holmes - all the staff were abed by that hour, and their quarters lie on the opposite side of the house."

Sherlock nodded slowly, apparently appeased. He lifted the wine bottle from the mantel and held it up to the light, frowning at it. It gleamed red, dregs and bees' wings floating around in it. The frown intensified as he put it down and looked back at the glasses; even from where he stood, John could see the dark droplets that remained at the bottom of all three glasses, one even containing the scraps of bees' wings.

"Continue, my Lady," he said once he had finished his perusal. "They left you tied to the chair, and I am assuming gagged somehow so that you could not call for help?"

She dipped her regal head. "They did, Master Holmes, but after an hour or so of wriggling I was able to free my mouth enough to scream and Teresa found me. She untied me and then raised the other servants, who called Constable Lestrade. I fainted when Teresa had returned me to my bedchamber from the shock, but I awakened shortly before you arrived." She smiled again, an incongruously wide and playful smile. Teresa added her own timid curling upwards of lips as if to corroborate the story. "Is that all, Master Holmes? I wish to break fast, I have not eaten since last night." she said lightly.

Sherlock frowned further at her manner, but he nodded.

Once the Lady and her maid had swept from the room, the detective let out an almighty sigh. Lestrade frowned at him. "So," he said cheerfully, slapping Sherlock companionably on the arm. "Pretty clear, don't you think? We'd assumed the Randall gang had left England, but if they haven't we'll catch them. We have military posted everywhere looking for them."

The actor made a discontented noise. John understood why he was upset; there had been something slightly odd about Lady Brackenstall, something about her manner that was not how he expected someone so recently widowed to act. "Do you think she was telling the truth?" he asked.

Sherlock shrugged slowly. "There's no reason not to believe her," he admitted. "There are several elements to this that are unusual, but nothing impossible, so I suppose we must trust her. Good news for the Randall case."

John hummed. The detective took a sharp breath in and seemed to rouse himself. "Well, I suppose that's that," he said briskly. "John, we ought to be going - if we make our way to the South Bank now we can perhaps get some time in the Globe before it opens for the afternoon."

"I'm sorry that wasn't as interesting as you thought," John said as they stepped out of the house and into the cold.

Sherlock made a face. "They can't all be," he said with an exaggeratedly set-upon tone. "London is not endowed with many intelligent criminals."

John chuckled. "What a shame," he commented.

The detective opened his mouth to reply, already smirking, but his eyes caught something out of John's line of sight. "What is that?" he said, clearly not expecting a response. John turned to look; the surface of a decorative pond in the middle of the carefully-cultured garden glinted in the weak sunlight. Sherlock stepped past John and strode over to it, calling for Lestrade as he went.

John shared a look with the constable as he rushed out the door and the two of them hurried to flank Sherlock and peer over his shoulder. He had crouched in front of the pond and was examining the ground before it. It was quickly obvious what he was looking at; someone had walked all around the pond, leaving clear, heeled bootprints in the damp earth. Sherlock stood, smiling triumphantly.

"Search the pond," he ordered Lestrade, already walking back towards the house. "Someone threw the silver in there, the silver that was missing from the sitting-room. Lady Brackenstall and her maid lied to us. This wasn't a burglary gone wrong. This was intentional, brutal murder."

* * *

**Notes: **

_The Deveraux plot:_ in 1601 an attempted rebellion was led by Robert Devereux, the Earl of Essex (who was at the time one of the Queen's favourites). The Lord Chamberlain's Men were implicated because they were bribed to perform _Richard II_, which had similar themes to what was going on at the time, in an attempt to rouse the public to Devereux's view. It was later proved that the Chamberlain's Men only accepted the commission because they were offered a higher pay for it. This event was portrayed - beautifully, if shockingly inaccurately - in the 2011 film _Anonymous_, except that they used _Richard III_ instead of _Richard II_, presumably because it's more famous.

_The Abbey Grange: _is obviously based upon Doyle's story from _The Return of Sherlock Holmes_. I've changed things to better fit both the time-period and the overarching plan I have for this story, but it's still extraordinarily recognisable.

I've tried to make it so that nobody needs to read _Twelfth Night_ to understand what we're talking about, and I will continue to do so with any other plays that I use (EG _As You Like It_). However, summaries of these plays can be found pretty much anywhere on the internet. Anywhere that I actually quote the plays, I'm taking it from The Norton Shakespeare.

Lastly, a note on _Sally Donovan_: while women were not generally accepted, and black/mixed-race women even less so, it wasn't as bad as people generally think. I take a lot of my inspiration on this (actually, this entire story) from Stephen Orgel's work, especially _Impersonations._ Having said that, Sally working for/with Lestrade would not be usual or accepted, and I have a backstory for her which I will elaborate on later.

Thanks to everyone who has expressed interest in this story, once again.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N**: Sorry this took so long. I was a little disheartened by the lack of response to the last chapter; also, my dear flatmate decided he was ready to write something else in the Infamia 'verse, so Velut Praeteritus successfully distracted me. As did the inspiration to write a Trek!lock AU, which I may take time to write before the next chapter of this...

But, I went to see a sadly insipid production of Macbeth over the weekend that gave me many ideas for the case's conclusion, so I'm all re-inspired.

Once again, this was checked over by the delightful **Silmanumenel **on AO3 before posting.

* * *

John gaped at Sherlock as the detective swept off, his black coat billowing dramatically as he turned abruptly on the spot with another call of, "Come on, John!"

He glanced at Lestrade. "I'd better - I mean, we'd better follow him, I guess," he said awkwardly, already starting back towards the house.

The constable sighed in a long-suffering manner. "I'll have Donovan search the pond," he said resignedly. "I suppose there's always a chance he doesn't find any evidence." The two of them started up a quick pace back to the sprawling stone building. John glanced at the older man, his greying hair sticking up as though he had run sweaty fingers through it. Lestrade shrugged. "If it wasn't the Randall gang, we've probably lost them."

"I'm sorry," John told him.

He snorted. "Never mind, that's what we thought before Lord Brackenstall was killed anyway." Lestrade glanced at him as he walked. "So are you acting with Sherlock, then? Or did you just run into him while he was going after that jewel-thief?"

John laughed. "Both, actually," he replied. "I saw him chasing the thief and so I helped, a bit, and then when he introduced himself I found out that he was actually the person I'm playing opposite in my company's next comedy. Incredible coincidence, really."

"Yes," Lestrade agreed, smiling oddly. "And - the Lord Chamberlain's Men, is that William Shakespeare?"

He sounded impressed; John smiled once more. With many companies, it was the actors that people remembered, but _everyone_ had heard of William Shakespeare . It was quite nice, actually, to hear comments like Lestrade's and not _oh, is that Richard Burbage's company?_ "Yes, it is," he replied. "Will was very impressed by Sherlock's performance in _The Spanish Tragedy_. I had previously expressed my interest in this particular play, and since it features a very prominent female lead, he asked Sherlock to join me."

Lestrade grinned. "Sherlock seems very friendly with you," he commented.

"He does," John agreed. "I can't help but feel extremely flattered by his attention. I have yet to actually see him act, but this side of his life certainly seems to fit his talent."

There was a pause; it wasn't uncomfortable, but John still got the feeling that he had missed the point of the constable's original statement. He looked back at the man for confirmation. "He doesn't have a history of making friends easily ," Lestrade admitted after a moment. "I'm a little curious to know what made him choose you so quickly."

John shrugged. "We are working together - our characters are romantically entangled. We need to spend time together to establish that kind of chemistry."

Lestrade actually laughed. "Sherlock usually _fakes_ chemistry," he told him. "The things I have heard him say of some of his romantic opposites - and yet, when he gets onto the stage you could not tell that an hour ago he was complaining that the man was stupid, boring and smelled like an unwashed sow."

"If you've _quite_ finished talking about me behind my back," Sherlock's voice echoed from the sitting room, not without a trace of amusement. John looked at Lestrade and shared a smile.

The detective was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the room, the frayed curtain-fringe in one hand, the cork from the bottle of French wine in the other, a satisfied grin on his face.

"Can you point me, John, to the evidence in this room that suggests the burglary was staged?" he asked brightly.

John frowned at him, slightly bewildered. "Me? Why?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, still grinning like an alley-cat on a trash heap. "Humour me," he pleaded.

"Um," John said blankly. "Staged. All right." He gave Sherlock another sceptical look; was the detective trying to humiliate him? Surely he knew that John didn't know any of these things - he was the only person in the room whose job_ wasn't_ to do this."She said he came in through the window…"

He walked over to the window and examined it; it didn't look as though it had been opened from the outside, despite the fact that Lady Brackenstall had told them she hadn't remembered opening it. "There's no sign that they forced the window," he commented.

Sherlock's eyebrow twitched upwards again. "Lady Brackenstall fell asleep in this room. She said that she didn't remember opening the window, but she could easily have done so - or a threatened servant could have snuck past her while she slept and opened it. A point worth making, but hardly evidence, John."

John felt himself flush. "Right. Um." He cast around the room before lighting on the detective once more, and the objects he held in his hand. "The curtain fringe," he said hesitantly. "There must be other things in the room they could have tied her up with that wouldn't make such a big noise as pulling the curtains down, surely. That's just… showing off."

The actor smiled triumphantly. "Now we're getting somewhere. Go and look at the curtain."

John frowned. "What?"

"Go and _look _at the curtain," Sherlock repeated, gesturing towards the window. John shot him an irritated look, but complied.

He bent to the fallen folds of fabric, lifting the rail that had held them to the wall and peering at it. It was immediately obvious what Sherlock had been getting at. "Oh," he said, looking up at Lestrade. "The fringe was _cut _off with a knife . So why bother creating the illusion of having torn it down?"

Sherlock smirked. "It's better than that," he said, springing to his feet and walking over to join John. "Look at where the railing's come away from the wall. There's no splintering, barely any marks at all."

John looked up; it was far higher than he could reach, but it was easy to see; where the curtain rail had been was only a few scratches, as though it had been carefully dismantled rather than pulled from the wall. "It wasn't pulled down at all," he concluded. "It was taken down gently so that it wouldn't make a huge noise and wake the staff."

The detective nodded sharply, making a satisfied noise of agreement. "That wouldn't have been so unusual if they hadn't tried so hard to cover it up," he concluded. "But why would Lady Brackenstall lie about it?"

"Because she was trying to protect whomever it actually was," John supplied, earning another nod from Sherlock.

Lestrade shifted irritably. "That isn't enough to say it wasn't the Randalls, though," he reminded them, though he didn't sound convinced.

Sherlock gave him a wry look. "Yes, it is," he contradicted, "but that isn't all the evidence. You've seen the Randalls' work before, this isn't anything like it. Who _hits_ a woman to make her _stop_ screaming? Hitting someone usually makes them scream _more. _And have you ever known the Randall gang to take _less_ than was readily available? Even if they realised Lord Brackenstall was dead and panicked, there is much more in this room that they could quickly have ransacked - including the rest of that bottle of wine. No-one breaks into a house and drinks _half_ a bottle of their best French wine."

Clearly on a roll, Sherlock strode to the mantelpiece and picked up the bottle, holding it to the light once more. "Look at this - there are bees' wings all through this liquid. Once you upended the bottle to pour it, it would take careful handling to avoid pouring the dregs and wings into the glasses, and I do not believe that the Randalls would have the patience for such careful handling, especially considering there are dregs in the third glass. And yet there _are_ dregs only in one glass." He held it up to illustrate.

"So what's your alternative, then?" Lestrade said briskly.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, but he was still smirking. "Only two people were drinking the wine, but they poured the dregs from both of their glasses into the third to make it appear as though all three had been used."

John realised when the detective smiled at him in amusement that he had nodded enthusiastically, perhaps even with a sharp breath in of enlightenment. He felt colour rise to his face. Sherlock's amused smile lingered on him for a moment before he moved on. "Clearly the Lady Brackenstall was lying to us," he finished, levelling a stare at Lestrade. "She drank with the murderer, singular - she knew him."

"Or she _was _the murderer," Lestrade theorised, frowning, "and she drank with her maid. She seemed very loyal."

Sherlock shook his head slowly. "I don't think either of them had the strength to kill Lord Brackenstall with a blow to the head. It wouldn't surprise me if she was in on the plot, but there was a man here as well. A fairly imposing one - at least six foot three."

John frowned. "How do you figure that?" he asked.

"Because that curtain-rail is three inches higher than I can comfortably reach, so he must be at least three inches taller than I am," Sherlock replied easily, shrugging.

John blinked. "That's brilliant," he said eagerly. Sherlock frowned at him as though he'd never been interrupted before. He pressed his lips together. "Sorry," he apologised.

"Don't be," the detective said, still frowning at him. He paused for long enough that John began to suspect he had lost his thread of reasoning and wasn't sure what to say next, before he took a sharp breath in and skittered off back to the armchair. "If that isn't evidence enough for you, Constable, there is a splash of blood on the chair in which Lady Brackenstall was sitting - the one she claims to have been tied to when her husband was murdered," he said, quickly recovering his composure. "Old blood would surely have worn off the seat by now, even if no-one had cleaned it, and in a house like this that's unlikely. It can only be Lord Brackenstall's, which means that she couldn't have been sitting there when he was killed."

John followed the Constable to the chair and peered down at it; there was indeed a small splatter of brown the colour of dried blood marring the fabric of the seat. Lestrade sighed. "Very well. I ought to question her again."

Sherlock shook his head quickly. "Let us," he said firmly. "We're not official, we can convince her that if she tells the truth we can keep this from you."

"But you _will_ tell me?" Lestrade clarified, frowning sternly at the detective.

Sherlock grinned. "Depends on the truth ," he replied casually. "My guess would be that he was her lover, and he killed Brackenstall to protect her. Arresting them both for that would hardly be _justice _- there are far nastier criminals you should be focussing on catching."

Lestrade still frowned, but after a moment he rolled his eyes and relented, shrugging. "You've got a far better chance of getting the truth out of her that way than I do," he admitted reluctantly.

The detective gave him another insouciant grin; he looked so like a child defying their parent that John grinned with him. Sherlock snapped his fingers as he made for the door. "Come on, John!" he said briskly.

John looked at Lestrade. "I'll…" he made a helpless gesture in Sherlock's direction.

The Constable shrugged in defeat. "Help yourself," he said. "He's right, it's likely to be a lover of hers, and there are worse things we can do than feign ignorance on this one case."

He nodded his thanks and followed Sherlock out of the room, rolling his eyes at the smug smile on the detective's face. He was a little embarrassed at the enthusiasm with which he had complimented Sherlock; he had got the impression once or twice that Lestrade was silently laughing at him for it. But from what he'd seen of Sherlock so far, if the detective was irritated or embarrassed by him he would have told him to stop or leave.

Lady Brackenstall was breakfasting on eggs and toast in the dining room, the long table empty but for her as Teresa stood unwaveringly by her side. Sherlock slid effortlessly into the seat opposite her and steepled his hands beneath his chin.

"Lady Brackenstall," he said gravely, "I know that Eustace's death was not accidental."

The Lady sat back in her chair, her spoon falling from her long fingers with a clatter. One corner of Sherlock's lush mouth twitched upwards. "I know that this was not the work of the Randall family, that it was not a burglary gone wrong - I know, my Lady, that you have been lying to me."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her and waited as she glanced up at Teresa, her blue eyes sharp with fright. "Mister Holmes, I have not -"

"Please, my Lady," the detective interrupted unconcernedly. "You said you've heard of my reputation. I _know_ you haven't been truthful, the evidence is all over that room. There's no use in lying to John and I, but there _is_ use in telling us the truth."

Feeling awkward standing at Sherlock's shoulder - and conscious that he was mirroring the stance of Lady Brackenstall's maid across the table - John sat down in the seat beside him, trying to look authoritative . Sherlock glanced at him as he moved, tilting his head almost imperceptibly towards the two women. John widened his eyes - was Sherlock really suggesting _he_ talk to her? Him trying to do Sherlock's job hadn't gone terribly well last time. But the detective dipped his head slightly in affirmation, so John cleared his throat and leaned forwards.

"My Lady," he said quietly, "we want to help you. Sherlock has no obligation to arrest you, or anyone else that had a hand in this. Lord Eustace was not a nice man. I, for one, am perfectly prepared to believe that his murderer was only trying to protect you. Doing a good deed, even. And Sherlock shares my sympathies. If you tell us everything, we can allow the Constable to believe that this really was an attempted burglary, and that will be the end of it." He smiled as the detective nodded at her.

Lady Brackenstall sat back in her chair and carefully arranged her face back into its serene, out-of-place smile, like lifting a mask back in place. "I appreciate that, Master Watson, Master Holmes," she said softly. Her blue eyes gleamed as she stared them down, wide and trembling, almost _pleading_. "But I have told you everything I know. I cannot give you anything else."

Sherlock sighed impatiently; John, aware of both the rudeness his companion was capable of displaying and the vulnerability the Lady was trying desperately to hide, held out a hand to stop him from speaking. "If we must discover the truth ourselves, my Lady, once it is found it is found forever. Constable Lestrade will have no choice but to arrest you, and the man that you are trying to protect."

"Be aware of the path you are choosing, Lady Brackenstall," Sherlock cautioned darkly. John shot him a glance, slightly amused at the almost unconsciously theatrical delivery .

The Lady's smile wavered, but did not fall. "I am, Master Holmes," she said softly. "If I may return to my breakfast? You need not notify me when you and the Constable leave my house."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes again, hesitating as though allowing her one last chance to change her mind. Then he stood abruptly, ignoring the protesting scrape of his chair over the floor. "Very well," he said finally. "I wish you luck, my Lady."

John tried to smile at the two women as he followed Sherlock out of the room, but he didn't quite manage it.

Lestrade, too, looked up at them anxiously from his position by the window when they returned to the sitting-room. Sherlock shook his head briskly. "She didn't talk to us," he said shortly, burying his hands in his coat pockets. "I'll start looking for the man, but I think we ought to keep the search unofficial for now. There may be more to this than we thought." He pressed his lips together, clearly irritated by Lady Brackenstall's lack of co-operation. "John and I need to leave. I've finished with this room, once you're satisfied you can let her get rid of that bloodstain and have the curtains put back up."

Without waiting for the Constable to acknowledge what he had said, Sherlock turned and swept out of the room, black coat flaring up behind him. John shared a smile halfway between apologetic and mutually amused with Lestrade before following once more.

"You don't think he was her lover, do you," John ventured once they were back on the road. "Her eyes when she talked to you, she was practically _begging_ you. There must be more to it."

"Perhaps," Sherlock agreed, nodding shortly. "The question is, was she begging me to believe her - and not go looking for the real killer, - because she was trying to protect a lover; or was she begging me _not_ to believe her, because she's in trouble and needs to be rescued?"

John frowned. He certainly thought that Lady Brackenstall and her maid were reaching out more desperately than they would have if it were simply a question of protecting a lover. But this was Sherlock's field, not his. "Where do we go from here, then?" he asked.

Sherlock drew in a deep breath through his nose, apparently savouring the smell of the long grass and horse manure around them. "We'll have to find him," he said briskly. "If it turns out that he _is_ her lover trying to rescue her, then we'll leave it there. But I don't think we can afford to take that chance." John nodded slowly. Sherlock clapped his hands together in a clear gesture of changing the subject. "From _here_, however, we need to get you back to the South Bank. This took longer than I anticipated, I'm afraid."

"Of course," John replied absently; he had almost forgotten he still had to perform in _Dream_ that afternoon after all the excitement, first of this new play and then of being so actively involved in Sherlock's work. Going back and performing with Tobias seemed something of an anticlimax. Sherlock smirked as though he knew exactly what John was thinking.

He flicked his coat closed across his chest and hummed thoughtfully. "If we walk quickly we might just have time to run these scripts when we get there," he commented, one hand patting his top pocket. "I believe there's only one scene that we are in together, but all the same."

John nodded emphatically. "I'd like to at least read through it with you," he agreed. "Perhaps sometime this week we could find Molly, as well."

"I have not seen any scenes that the three of us share," Sherlock said, frowning. "Actually, considering the fervour with which Orsino pursues Olivia, it surprised me. It would be an interesting device if the two did not share the stage until it is too late."

He frowned thoughtfully at John, who frowned back; he'd been looking forwards to working more closely with the boy, but it didn't sound as though he would end up working with him at all. Another ugly flicker of irrational jealousy sparked in John's stomach, though he wasn't sure whether it was Ben or Sherlock he was jealous of. He stamped it down quickly, but evidently Sherlock caught the flash of discomfort as it manifested itself in his face. "Are you all right, John?" Sherlock asked.

John forced a smile. "Of course," he said unconcernedly. "I have enjoyed working with Molly, that's all - I'll be disappointed if we only have a little stage time together this time around."

The detective smiled back. "I'm sure it won't be the last time you work together," he assured him. John hoped that was true; he knew that Ben was on his way up in the theatre world, but he hoped that he himself would continue to find the roles to match. He trusted that Will would politely sideline him into minor roles when his fitness for the leads began to decline.

"What will you do this afternoon?" John asked, mostly to change the subject.

Sherlock grinned at his transparency. "Go down to the docks and have a look for anyone who could have been Lady Brackenstall's lover," he said simply.

John raised an eyebrow. "The docks?" he indulged, knowing that Sherlock only hadn't provided the explanation because he seemed to like it when John acknowledged that he couldn't follow his incredible chains of reasoning.

"Subtle variances in her accent and skin tone suggest she came to London by boat ," he explained, smiling smugly. John suppressed his own amused smile at the detective's preening. "Not unusual, but my guess would be that if she was going to find a lover, she would have found it on the boat she arrived on and then not acted on it because she was already engaged. I'll check the records and find the ship, then ask a few questions. I'm sure once I mention that she's in danger, if there is a lover, he'll step forwards."

"I expect so," John agreed.

Sherlock gave him a half-smile for the opinion. "I can try to get my hands on some more material for tomorrow morning," he said after they had walked for a while. John emerged from a lengthy internal debate regarding his sudden jealousy with an inquisitive noise. "More information on the plot of the new play, scripts for _As You Like It_, perhaps ? If you still want to work on character with me, that is," he added, suddenly looking uncertain.

John grinned. "Of course I do," he answered quickly. "That would be fantastic. We could meet at the inn you're staying at? I think there is a rehearsal on at the Globe tomorrow morning, but the inn should be large enough, don't you think?"

The taller man smiled warmly. "Definitely," he agreed. "So, tomorrow morning, Angelo's Inn?"

"I'll drop by," John confirmed, grinning. Sherlock grinned back. "Did Will give you a name for this play, by the way? It seems odd to keep referring to it as _this new play_."

Sherlock's grin turned amused. "Oh, yes," he said airily. "He isn't sure yet, but he was thinking _What You Will_. Personally, I think that's a bit too similar to _As You Like It_ - I much prefer the alternate name he's considering."

John raised an eyebrow, letting Sherlock see his amusement as it became clear once again that he wasn't going to elaborate without prompt. "And what's that?" he indulged.

The detective ignored the dig and answered the question instead, still smirking smugly. "_Twelfth Night ."_


End file.
